


Au Revoir, Feathered Boa

by mysticsushi



Series: Feathered Boa series [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Future Fic, I'm not done yet, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, there's kind of a plot now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticsushi/pseuds/mysticsushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>acquaintances run into each other in an unexpected place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Au Revoir, Feathered Boa

**Author's Note:**

> Dear lord, I actually did research on this one.

Oz stands leaning against a crumbling mud wall, unmindful of the dust coating the back of his shirt. The sun is in the final stages of disappearing over the horizon, only remaining as wisps of light, taking some of the blistering heat with it. A stiff breeze wafts across the river, but is not cool or comforting.

Distantly, his ears can hear insects humming over the river, croaking bull frogs, howling jackals and dogs in the desert, and the beginning of the nightly gathering by the city’s inhabitants.

He remembers earlier in the day, when the area in front of him had been bustling with people. Girls who are forever slaves, even though there is no more slavery, had labored underneath the sun. Gardeners had pampered the few plants that could grow in the intense heat. Heavily obese women had moved through the street, carried on liters by servants.

There are not many people in the street now. Only him, some straggling merchants, a handful of men on their way to a bar, and a homeless man shuffling along the dusty street brave the night. The smells of the city are easy to identify but not entirely welcome – they mainly consist of dust and rot.

Oz is content with the city, far from everything he knows. He is slowly on his way back to Budapest, making many detours on the way. It is not like he’s in a huge rush to get anywhere. In fact, he likes spending time in places so very different from where he grew up.

After a few more moments of contemplation, he pushes away from the wall, deciding to head back to the hotel for dinner before putting in some practice time with his guitar. On his way down the street he passes the homeless man, who grabs Oz’s arm with surprising strength.

“What you doin’ out?” the man asks in broken French. “You should be in house. Dangerous at night.”

“I know,” Oz replies in French. “I’m going now.”

“Good.” The man nods gravely in approval. “The djinn’ll get you if you out. Evil things, the djinn. Get in house.”

With a final squeeze the man walks away, leaving Oz to watch him with hooded eyes. A small, bemused smile curves his lips. If only the man knew.

Once again he begins his journey to the hotel, unconsciously fingering the charm in his pocket. He had given some magical herbs to a holy man for it. Years on the Hellmouth trained him to survive any possible threat, including djinn, or evil spirits. Just because he had yet to see one doesn’t mean they aren’t real.

His green eyes absorb the images in front of him as he walks: ancient mosques surrounded by scaffolds in an attempt to restore them; gray chalk and mud buildings sprayed with graffiti; a deteriorating fort, one of two left over from the French occupation. The whole city looks like an eroded sandcastle, forgotten by everything but the elements.

“Yeah, well, your mum smells like old socks!”

The sound of English breaks Oz from his thoughts, a rare language in the city. He looks over at the bar he’s passing to see Spike bounding to his feet, brushing dust and dirt from his duster while cursing the ancestry of someone in the bar.

Absently, Oz wonders at how late it had gotten while he had observed the dying activity of the marketplace. He then wonders at the fact that Spike is there and not in Sunnydale or Europe or just someplace else. It is the last place he expects to run into the blonde vampire.

“Stupid pillocks, tossin’ me out,” Spike mutters as he walks away and, unconsciously, towards Oz. “Ought to teach ‘em a lesson, messin’ with me.”

He passes by the werewolf, walking a few more feet before coming to a stop. A moment’s hesitation, followed by a slow turn. Surprise colors the vampire’s face, and Oz knows his previous feelings are now shared.

“Oz?” Spike chokes out, his brow creased as if he can’t decide if the young man is truly in front of him.

“Long time no see.” Oz motions with his head to the bar. “Trouble with the natives?”

Spike snorts. “Bleedin’ idiots wouldn’t give me a beer. You’d think they didn’t understand English or somethin’.”

A full smile now, something Oz hasn’t done in a long time. “They don’t understand English.”

The blonde blinks. “Oh.” A pause. “What do they understand, then?”

“French, tribal dialects,” Oz says. “Spanish or Russian, if you’re lucky.”

Silence as Spike figures out what to do next, and an explosive sigh. “I really need a drink.”

“You can get one at my hotel. Come on.”

The two men set off, a comfortable silence settling between them even after years of separation. It is one of the things Oz has always liked about his companion, when Spike isn’t talking. He’s a big fan of silence and takes it wherever he can find it.

The hotel has a very small restaurant, but it’s big enough to provide food and alcohol when needed. Oz listens as Spike butchers the French language completely, then orders the closest thing the hotel has to a hamburger, two beers, and cancels Spike’s order.

He can’t help a grin from appearing, nor can he prevent a chuckle from escaping his lips.

“What’s so funny?” Spike demands when the waiter is gone.

“You ordered crocodile,” Oz says, still chuckling.

Blue eyes grow wide. “Why didn’t the waiter say anythin’?”

“People like it here.” Another chuckle at the horror on the vampire’s face; Oz hasn’t had this much merriment in a while. “Don’t worry, he’s not bringing it.”

“Good. These people . . .” Spike trails off as the waiter brings the two beers. He grabs one immediately and downs half the glass, making at a face at the taste.

“I’ve gotta ask, man. What are you doing here?” Oz is used to the poor quality beer and sips at the amberish liquid.

“Asked myself that a million times, mate. Thought it would be fun, I guess.”

An eyebrow raises. “You thought Timbuktu would be fun?”

“How was I supposed to know it actually existed?” Another mouthful of beer goes into his mouth, this time with more caution. “Then I heard the tales about the African ‘city of gold’. Couldn’t resist popin’ in and takin’ a peak.”

“That was centuries ago.”

Spike makes a general motion with his glass. “I’ve figured that out. This place is worse than a crypt. Had to take a boat to get here, too, filled with stinkin’ animals and stinkin’ people. What kind of city doesn’t have airplanes?”

Oz’s burger arrives and he takes a bite, savoring the odd combination of raw and burnt meat. “There’s a plane,” he says when he swallows. “It comes three times a week.”

“Effin’ city,” the blonde mutters into his now empty glass. A glare to the waiter causes a filled glass to appear. “What are you doin’ here? I thought you were in Miami.”

“I left.” He considers ordering another burger, but decides to save his money since he’s unsure if Spike has any. “Things got tense.”

Spike smirks at the werewolf. “Yeah, I heard you were in with the pack down there. I didn’t believe it at first. Did you get in a fight? Kill someone?” Oz finds himself very close to inquisitive blue eyes.

“Something like that.” He doesn’t like talking about the last few years in Miami, doesn’t like thinking about them. The new leader had seen Oz as a threat, and no amount of words had convinced her otherwise. After his last clash with another alpha werewolf, he left rather than repeat the incident.

“And just what would the little witch say to that?”

Oz just shrugs, knowing the vampire is trying to get under his skin. He and Willow have been separated for too long for him to be affected by Spike’s comments. After a moment, the blonde returns his attention to the alcohol in front of him.

Spike spends the rest of the night getting drunk, and while it amuses Oz immensely it also insures that the vampire would be staying at the hotel for the day. The guitarist feels no remorse as he digs some money out of the duster’s pockets to pay for all the beer. There’s only enough cash to cover the drinks, however, so Oz decides to let Spike sleep it off in his room.

Somehow Oz manages to get Spike standing, each with an arm around the other’s shoulders. They begin the tedious process of walking up the stairs, since there is no elevator in the hotel.

“D’ya know one o’ the problems wit’ this city?” Spike asks Oz, his words slurring together. “The women. I’ve neva seen so – so many FAT women in one place.”

“It’s a sign of wealth,” Oz replies, even though he knows its pointless.

“Money’s a sign o’ wealth. Fat women are a sign” - belch - “a sign o’ fat women.”

The at-the-moment brunette can’t argue with that, so he doesn’t try to. Instead he balances Spike while he unlocks his door. The vampire barely makes into the room before he collapses on the bed.

“City’s full o’ fat women,” he mumbles. “Don’t have that in the soddin’ brochure.”

Boots and socks are pulled off, but by the time Oz gets to the duster Spike is passed out. Going with the way things have turned out, he strips to his boxers, closes the curtains, and crawls in next to the vampire. As he falls asleep he realizes he never practiced his guitar like he planned.

Oz wakes up the next morning to find something sprawled across this stomach. He’s vaguely reminded of a cat his family had when he was a kid, except that this is a lot heavier than a cat. Leather and blonde hair remind him that it’s Spike, who he prefers to the cat.

With no small amount of squirming he manages to get out from under the unconscious vampire. Spike curls into where the werewolf had been, searching for heat. Looking at the result of his squirming, Oz decides a cold shower wouldn’t hurt.

The freezing water shocks his system, startling his brain into full alertness. It immediately directs all focus onto the sleeping blonde and memories of their past encounters. Anything he tries to think about somehow connects to Spike, negating the cold’s effects.

Groaning, he leans against the side wall of the shower, trying to put the area most in need of the water under the spray. He attempts to convince himself that taking advantage of a hung over vampire would be wrong, but his body doesn’t seem to want to listen.

He has no idea how long he stood under the water, struggling to keep his mind blank. The wolf has no concept of time either, but is aware when another presence enters the room. Oz keeps still, unsure of what Spike will do. The answer presents himself when the immortal opens the shower door and steps inside.

A brief, uncertain moment as they stared at each other, Spike unsure if his advances are wanted. Oz ends the tension, reaching forward and bringing his companion’s lips to his own. It’s a kiss of readjustment, where they remember the past and relearn feelings and sensations. It’s a kiss that deepens into one of passion, long denied.

Spike firmly pushes the smaller man against the shower wall, bending to devour Oz from the mouth inward. One of the vampire’s hands reaches blindly for the shower control, making the water almost unbearably hot. Oz is lost in temperature sensations, hot drops raining down while a cool mouth attacks his own.

With its previous task completed, Spike’s hand makes its way down to their erections, which are rubbing against each other. One tug, two, and one more for luck as Oz’s joins the fray. Fingers and straining flesh struggle in rapturous conflict.

Oz wonders at his sudden inability to notice time or actions, because he finds himself lifted against the wall, his legs wrapped around Spike’s waist. A few gentle thrusts as he is entered by the Englishman, a moment to adjust and remember, and then the powerful thrusts begin. The water continues to beat down on them as he is hit by wave after wave of pure delight, followed by Spike’s cool seed.

Suddenly that cool mouth is devouring Oz further south. The hot water burns his chest, but Oz doesn’t care. The blissful, almost otherworldly jolts of pleasure act like electricity on his flat-lining system. He climaxes within moments, reaching a debilitating but welcome release.

One of them remembers to shut off the cooling water as they stumble back to the bed. They collapse in sated exhaustion in a mass of intertwined limbs, unmindful of their nakedness. Spike’s chin rests on Oz’s head, and the guitarist determines he rather likes their position.

“So,” Spike begins hesitantly, “you don’t happen to need a traveling partner, do you?”

Oz smiles faintly at the vampire’s doubt. “I could use some company. And I’m pretty sure you owe me a feathered boa.”

A chuckle enters Oz’s ear. “Just as long as we go somewhere with good beer, mate, I’ll buy you all the feathered boas you want.”

Before he drifts off to sleep again, Oz has the cliche thought that this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you didn’t catch it, or even if you did and didn’t believe it, I set the story in Timbuktu. Yes, it actually exists.


End file.
